Dabutcha's Blog

January 8, 2015

Je Sui Charlie. We have to be bold and never give in to threats of any kind.

Je Sui Charlie

It takes balls to be funny.

The events in Paris prove that the world faces an enemy that takes its mission seriously.  Perhaps it’s time we free people do the same.  Not only must we rebel against Islamic terror groups, but also against those individuals and institutions which aim to stifle our freedom of expression and deny us our birthright.  Our minds ought remain free of any and all influence which looks to stamp out the very desire to explore, to share.  Our lives are ours to make what we want of them.  Yes, its contradictory to say I want to eradicate the opponents of freedom–because true freedom allows for its own oppression; at least the efforts to oppress it.  Islamic extremists, megacorporations, totalitarian governments, et al. enjoy the same right to exist as everyone else.  Problem is, they want to control and/or destroy the rest of us.  What a conundrum.

The cartoon above incited riots and acts of terror; pure evil.  I’m posting it because fuck that.  Granted, I’m not likely to change anyone’s viewpoints.  I just want to stand with the people who died and the people who must continue in the shadow of this tragedy.  Here’s to letting the light shine again, maybe even a bit brighter this time.

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January 7, 2015

Top Ten Signs the World is a Fucked Up Place with Little to No Chance of Ever Getting Any Better. At Least Not Soon.

1. Gluten.
With all the strife and what have you in, like, Kosovo or wherever, it’s like totally crazy that we still have gluten.  When are the Big Bread Manufacturers (Hello, Monsanto? Can you say GMO?  Like, OMG.) going to realize that the world can’t get anything done if it’s constantly having serious GI issues?  Like, for real.  If all I do is shit, then I can’t do shit.  It’s time we ended our gluten dependence and maybe we won’t have to invade North Korea.

2. Ignorance.
If anyone were to conduct research into the level of stupid in the world, we’d need someone to interpret it.  Oh, that’s right, this study is already being conducted.  It’s called market research and it’s compiling data and grouping it on a never-ending platform from which our lives will be dictated in the near future.  No joke.  Everything we do is already being monitored and aggregated so that companies and governments will be able to predict behaviors; everything from buying patterns and brand preference to fetishistic tendencies and likelihood to commit crimes–we are being labelled.  Willingly.

3. Facebook.
In fact, all of Social Media is a cry for help.  Whether you’re a greaseball on Tinder or a soccer mom on Pinterest, you’re essentially begging for recognition.  And if you’re on social media but not “active” in your participation, then you, my friend, are the new stalker.  The silent spectator.  The huntsman (or huntress) of hyperspace.  You’re a creep.  But that’s just it: we’re all creeps.  We look in on this person and that, gauging our lives by what others are doing or saying.  Let’s face it, people are just as boring as they were in the ’70s; they’re just boring and online.  Yet, we arrive in droves–at all hours of the day, checking ourselves in and checking on our “friends.”  We demand privacy and then throw it back like a finless minnow that happened to catch the hook.  “Privacy?  We can’t eat this.”  Kerplunk.

4. Football.
I’m a football fan.  Strategy, camaraderie, territory.  Football reflects the barbarous nature of man in its most basic form–I want what’s yours and I’m going to take it.  It’s said that competition is healthy and I don’t disagree.  Without it, survival would be irrelevant.  At least, that’s what my very human brain believes.  What’s the fun of living another day if I don’t have to overcome something in order to do so? The sport becomes Apocalyptic when a husky governor displays his allegiance and it’s considered breaking news.  I, myself, wrote “Fuck Christie” on my Facebook wall (timeline, whatthefuckever).  In fact, what prompted me to include football in this list was hearing a coworker say “how bout them Cowboys?” as she walked by.  There’s so very much wrong with that, I was instantly pissed off and wanted to shout special obscenities in her direction.  Football.

5. Music.
How our ears don’t have a perpetual stream of blood and brain matter leaking from them is a mystery to me.  Considering the absolute garbage that we feed them, our hearing organs might well retaliate at some point.  Ke$ha sounds like if herpes and the clap had a baby and it cried on autotune.  “Wah-ah-ah-ah-ah yeahhhhh penises and shots.”  Li’l Wayne used to be a rapper.  True story.  I know I sound like that old dude who swears that real music died decades ago because I’m old and can’t keep up.  And that would be correct.  However, the music industry by and large is still feeding us loads and loads of shit while true artists languish in obscurity.  Sad fact is, worthwhile music is being made; we just can’t hear it.

6. Mass Shootings.
Wait, what?  Yes, I’m being serious here.  Our society has become a first-person shooter video game.  Every day, the media bombards us with images and sounds from the latest incident and we gleefully absorb it into the collective conscious. Murder’s a part of life.  We are to accept this and to wait until we enter the wrong McDonald’s or cut off the wrong old lady in traffic or offend the wrong god.  Just today, 12 people were killed in France at the same newspaper that printed a cartoon.  A fucking cartoon.  Cops are being killed while sitting in their cruisers, drinking coffee, and awaiting their next life-or-death interaction.  It’s all fun and games until it isn’t.

6. Agendas.
Conservative or Liberal.  Democrat or Republican.  Black or White.  Oral or anal.  Everyone is right and everyone is wrong and they’re fighting over who is who.  Not a moment passes that we aren’t saturated with the opinions of anyone with a phone, a keyboard, or a megaphone.  What do we want?  Peace!  When do we want it?  As soon as we’re done screaming that we want peace!  Big business wants us to spend all of our money; big banking wants us to save it; big government wants to take it; and big religion wants us to donate it all to them.  It’s not “money, power, respect.”  It’s “money, power, fear, control.”  The world is too loud with meaningless noise trying to tell me how to think and I’m fucking sick of it.

7. Food.
See also, Agendas.  And Gluten.  And Ignorance.  Yesterday, Danielle and I drank smoothies that contained watercress, spinach, carrots, mint, grapes, and pears.  While that sounds healthy–and it certainly was a healthy alternative–we have no way of knowing exactly what went into the growing of the plants we drank.  Pesticides and petroleum products galore all likely contributed to our smoothies and some of these chemicals made their way into my NutriBullet.  Across the globe, individuals eat a nutritionally devoid diet and have no idea why or why it’s killing them.

8. Environmentalism.
Humanity has so fucked up its host organism that wars are waged over its protection or lack thereof.  Greenhouse deniers engage eco-terrorists in word skirmishes and physical confrontations and sabotage of varying degrees.  I sincerely doubt that cliques of ticks clash upon the family dog’s back because one side says they are killing the dog while the other claims the dog is going through its natural cycles. Parasites don’t normally argue over the host; they just suck and suck until there’s nothing left.  Humanity is an amplified virus, a Biosafety Level 4 agent.  No amount of debate, no number of conferences will change that.  If we’re lucky, we’ll find a new host before our current home rejects us.

9. Hipsters.
Being cool is no longer cool.  It’s much cooler to be uncool.  But don’t try to hard; that’s not cool at all.  Just don’t be too uncool, because you’ll run the risk of becoming cool and therefore undoing all your uncoolness and you’ll be thrust into the uncomfortable position of defending your uncoolness, which is actually rather cool.  A slut wearing glasses is still a slut and a stain who has a beard is still a stain.  A guy could wear flannel condoms and still be mainstream.  “I, like, don’t even shave my balls.  That’s so desperate.  I rock a 70s bush and I love it.”  Whatever, Levi.  Your mom named you after the jeans she shed in the back of your dad’s bio-diesel Volkswagen.  At least he had a philosophy.

10. Top 10 Lists.
When a late night bit gets passed off for real journalism, the countdown has begun.  As I pursued a writing career, I encountered many online news outlets that were hiring freelance contributors.  Exploring more deeply, I found that the majority of the contributions were lists of interests and opinions.  What the fuck?  News is not news anymore; it’s entertainment.  How else could you explain Fox News’ Cavalcade of Opinionated Blonde Bimbos?  Media companies realize that nobody cares what’s going on in the world unless they’re being told by a babe in a short skirt.  And then, we only care enough to watch the car commercials in between tit shots.  Oh, and the car commercials will also have tit shots.  Because god forbid two minutes pass without tits flashing on the television screen.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Top tens. Sorry, I’m easily distracted by shiny objects and boobs.  Just ask Danielle…  my Perfect Ten!

September 23, 2014

Spare some change?

Filed under: Life — thabutcha @ 11:24 PM

Moving.  Out, up, in, around, among…  I got a new address with my old lady, life is good, and the past several days have seen my gradual transformation from carefree slob to responsible Rob.

Ok, ya got me.  I only typed that because it rhymes.

Today’s contribution to my eventual relocation included a Rubbermaid tub (one of several) filled with baseball cards, a piece of luggage weighed with smaller pieces of luggage, and a box of stuff: pictures from childhood, deodorant, an old pair of glasses that I shan’t admit I ever wore and a random, white plug that goes to a random, white device.  Of the items that rode to the new pad in said box, these I presently recall.

I have years’ worth of crap, why?

On the passenger-side floorboard of my sporty Kia rested since yesterday a collection of change in a vase-like container.  Some people create rain; others prefer drizzle.  The joke goes that tossing change at a stripper equates to making it hail.  Even people who make it hail appear Trump-like in my mind’s eye.  My change goes in a bucket.

I elected that, rather than lugging upstairs with the baseball cards and the suitcase and the junk box, the bucket o’ change would off board at another depot: the Blue Bell Giant Coinstar.  Carrying a few paper notes up the elevator and down the long hall to our new front door proved a preferred alternate to invariably tripping over the odd-designed hotel quality carpeting in front of apartment 603 and collapsing into a puddle of multi-denominational, metal tokens.  If a new neighbor happens to hear that ruckus, they’d find upon opening their door a pathetic idolater, puking the gods’ names into a pool of unfulfilled wishes–minus the ornate fountain and the calming flow of crystal clear water.  Not a grand first impression.

Of course, the decision is not made lightly to use a coin counter by the front door of a busy supermarket during evening rush.  The machine is loud.  As fuck.  I’m pretty sure this is intended to shame the user, as if to scream,

          Hey, everyone!  Look at this loser.  Counting change and shit. 

          Why don’t you go hit up a dollar menu with all those nickels, you bum? 

          Let’s all point and feel better about ourselves.

Adding to the ambiance of desperation, the Coinstar sits next to the lottery machine. Not one of those modern, do-it-all deals where you can play your lucky numbers for every drawing over the coming six months, this is a scratch-off only kiosk.  It may as well be a noisy-bar cigarette machine.  Remember those clear yet tar-stained glass pulls, from a time when parents sent their kids “around the corner” to the local dive for packs of smokes?  I think you even get a book of matches with every Super Bingo ticket you invest in.

*The Lottery Commission has adopted a new disclaimer – something about lighting your house on fire instead of betting your future in a church-basement grifter game.

Lottery and coin conversion: Not a whole lot of redemption to be found as you question your impulse shopping habits and admit to yourself that you’re never going to eat all those baby carrots before they go slimy.  But 2 bags for $5?  That’s a great deal.

Isn’t it?


What about paying the 10.9% fee because I’m too lazy to roll my change and haul it to the bank myself?  Fucked as I am, I’m not about to spend three hours rolling up a shit-ton of dirty-ass coins that have been pawed-and-fingered by lord-knows-who.  The 10.9% seems a fair wage for the midget hiding inside that magical metal can: a poor man’s poor-man’s ATM.

What I get a kick out of, whenever I succumb to the clangy siren’s song of the currency devouring harlot, is what the machine throws back.  Here’s a contraption that chugs pennies and quarters but, for whatever reason, finds a Sacagawea Dollar unacceptable.  I wanna tell it,

“Bitch, please!  If that bitch knew you rejected something so shiny, she’d claim your scalp in a Jamestown minute!”

too soon?

Before I earlier entered the Giant with my heavy load, I doubled back to the car to collect the loose change collected in the Kia’s center console.  Mostly change, that is.  You know how it goes – other shit falls in there and we kinda just go “eh” and leave it–’til a day like today.  Dumping my dollars into the Coinstar, I’d noticed a few items doing their own thing, so I let them ride.  The button always returns; it’s survived three or four of these purges.  Maybe someday I’ll sew it onto an old shirt, you know, to reward it for its dedication.  A paperclip.  Are those generic ibuprofen tumbling into the belly of the beast?  They are.  Somehow, the machine accepted these.

Perhaps the counting dwarf had a rough one last night.  Who am I to judge?

Once the coins ceased dropping and the counter ceased counting, I collected my ticket to riches.  Minus 10.9%.  Cash in hand – well, cash and empty receptacle in hand – I ran to the car, dropped the bucket into the box  marked “Random” and returned to Giant to get some needed items.  The small crowd that’d gathered for the spectacle was dispersing; I approached.

“What’s going on?” I asked an elderly woman.

“Some loser just cashed in a bunch of change and a few Advils.”

“People are nuts,” I replied.

“That’s what’s wrong with this country, ya know?”

“Sure is,” I wink-and-nodded.  “You have a good day, Ma’am.”

I left the store carrying twenty cans of cat food and the tiniest amount of dignity.  But that’s when I saw it: Two spaces away, the same old woman from inside stood panicked by the raised front end of her Dodge Dart.  Below, I could barely make out the shape…

Grunting and swearing, the coin midget stood, rolled the flat tire from its perch, and hoisted a donut into its place.  He wiped the sweat and grease from his brow just in time to catch me skulking by in the accelerating Kia, my head hanged in shame.

When I got to the light at Township Line, I took a deep breath, glanced up into the rear-view, and declared “Something’s gotta change here.”

Driving home, the Sun’s beams forced my brow to furrow and a pain to shoot across my temple.  I reached into the center console, but there was no help there.

“Damn you, Change Dwarf!”

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